


Life is Pain (Anyone Who Says Differently Is Selling Something)

by Reccea



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reccea/pseuds/Reccea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm here to find out why Cobb's subconscious decided to mutilate you." Eames smiles beatifically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is Pain (Anyone Who Says Differently Is Selling Something)

Growing up, Arthur was the kind of child who was never, ever ill. He was small for his age, certainly, but he hadn't caught the chicken pox when half the first grade had, and he hadn't caught strep throat even though he had four friends who got their tonsils taken out before they were 8.

He got colds certainly- unavoidable once his younger sister had come along- but he was mostly unfamiliar with bubblegum-flavored amoxicillin (and would have preferred an injection anyway) and had perfect attendance up through the fifth grade.

All this to say that the migraines are not normal, not for him. Not until the dreaming.

The first time isn't anything remarkable. Arthur is new (and green) and stuck on one end of the maze when he should be on the other. He knows that it's possible to alter the dreamscape once you're already inside but he doesn't know exactly why everyone kept saying not to do it.

The layout is a high school track and field competition from the 1950s, complete with ridiculous uniforms and girls wearing poodle skirts watching from the stands. Arthur's supposed to look like one of the relay team, wearing ridiculous shorts, too-long socks, and tennis shoes, while carrying a baton. The mark and Mal are way the hell on other side of the bleachers-which were intricately designed to look perfectly normal from the outside but are actually the center section of the dreamscape maze. And Arthur really isn't interested in the ten minutes it's going to take to get through it.

He makes a direct path down from the top and gets to the other side in under two minutes. He's expecting some sidelong looks from the projections, though not as many as he gets.

He isn't expecting the javelin.

(He definitely isn't expecting the painfully slow death that a javelin through the chest gets you when it misses the heart. His lungs fill with blood and he coughs it out, watching it pool along the dirt of the track, smearing the white chalk lines. Mal gets to him as soon as she can, but it's not _soon_ and he's learned his lesson pretty fucking well by then.)

After, Mal tells him, "You will probably get a headache," and places a small bottle of aspirin in his hand.

Arthur pockets the aspirin and apologizes again, feeling every inch the fool.

Mal smiles, impishly, "We learn best from mistakes, I think." She winks at him and he thinks maybe they'll call him again.

His head starts to pound on the way home, the kind of headache he'd gotten when he'd pulled two all-nighters in a row. But when he gets to his apartment the pounding has given way to a stabbing feeling that seems to echo from his head all through his body.

He spends hours in bed, trying not to throw up because he can't decide if it'll make him feel better or worse, and hoping he won't overdose on aspirin. But it passes and he hedges his bets on not putting himself in that position again.

He's mostly successful.

The second time is two years later and it isn't his fuck-up, but it is his body tumbling out the window of the third story and it is his bones that shatter on impact.

Eames, the new guy (who's new to the team, not to the business), gets to him first. But getting there first is still a handful of minutes from the third floor to ground- the pleasant way- and around the building to put a bullet in Arthur's ever-so-grateful head.

Arthur's hands are shaking as he pulls out the IV. His fingertips are tingling, there's an ache in the back of his head and he'd almost forgotten about that one debilitating headache but he remembers now and vividly.

He takes deep, even breaths and finds the aspirin Mal has tucked in her small purse. He doesn't think it will help but it's better than nothing at all. He waits until the others come to, waits as they gather their things, waits as they file out the door like they were never there. He's always the one to bring up the rear, keep a weather eye out, but Eames doesn't break away at the first intersection the way he's supposed to. Instead he slows down and edges right so he's walking right next to Arthur.

"You going to make it?" Eames asks casually, like it's no big thing, like it's perfectly normal, like he has expressed interest in Arthur's well-being more than once.

"I'm fine," Arthur says. There are spots dotting his vision, bluepinkblack things, and his skin tingles.

"Right, okay," Eames nods. "I'm walking you back to your hotel. And please don't argue, it won't get you anywhere."

Arguing would require more effort than Arthur's currently interested in investing (any other time he'd be perfectly happy to invest all the effort in the world but not right now). Eames gets him back to the hotel, gets him a glass of water and something stronger than aspirin, and then leaves him alone. (The next morning Arthur's both embarrassed and grateful and decides to pretend it never happened.)

The third time is a choice. He sacrifices his well-being for Dom's and is more than happy to. But the headache- the migraine, let's be honest- is worse since it was an hour he spent dying, not just a few minutes.

It's after that third time that he sees his physician. He's mostly sure that it's nothing to be concerned about but he gets a full work-up to be on the safe side. Complete physical, CAT scan, blood work, and even an eye exam.

There is nothing particularly wrong with him, as expected. His brain just has an aversion to his dreaming self getting stabbed, shot, vivisected, mutilated, ripped to pieces, hit by cars, and beat to shit.

And generally he's good enough (fantastic enough really) at his job that his migraines are only semi-annual affairs.

And then Mal dies.

Now, it's once or twice a month that his head feels like it's going to topple right off.

If it's a straight-out, bullet-in-the-face kind of death then he's just fine. But pain, well, that's something different altogether.

Getting his kneecap blown off in a dream within a dream means that after he gets off the plane at Charles de Gaulle, he spends several hours in his hotel room alternating between vomiting up the entire contents of his stomach or being face down on the bed trying to pretend there's not an aurora borealis underneath his eyelids.

He doesn't forgive Cobb for that for several days. And even then it's only because he's too professional to be petty in front of the new girl.

The professionalism wanes after several training sessions that end poorly and getting pushed off a chair all day in the name of science.

Arthur has -obviously- never done inception and Eames has only failed at it, so even with the research and the three-level architecture , Arthur's dreaming with Cobb, trying to translate what Cobb's willing to tell him into something Arthur can work with.

The whole group goes in fairly often- partly so Arthur and Cobb can make sure Yusuf and Saito are comfortable enough in the shared dreamspace not to be liabilities when the job actually goes down. (Ariadne always comes along without question because it's pretty clear she's sucked in and sooner or later she'll be more than just an architect. Arthur figures it's better to get her adjusted with this group than to let someone else have a crack at it.)

The group sessions, though, never go quite as planned. Yusuf keeps testing slightly different versions of his compound and has taken to verbally listing the differences, which Arthur wouldn't mind if he hadn't already tested all the possibilities for Yusuf earlier in the month. Ariadne's still having trouble resisting the urge to create while in the dream which makes Arthur consider further negative reinforcement (how her first interaction with Mal wasn't negative enough, he's not sure). And Eames likes to wander off just so he can wander back in as someone else. (Eames isn't actually a problem, it's just annoying. And amusing.)

This particular session is intended as a lesson in regrouping when things go awry. Each team member has been placed at a different spot in the maze and the goal is to get to center without drawing any undue attention.

Arthur's there first, unsurprisingly. (It used to be that Dom would be the one to bet on, but that hasn't been the case in the last year, not when he refuses to know the layout of anything.)

The maze is a buzzing metropolis, similar to the proposed first layer for the actual job, though the layout's different in deference to Cobb's request. It's an unfinished metropolis though, with empty lots and half finished parking garages, which, in retrospect, was a bad idea. Ariadne probably couldn't resist cleaning up a little.

The skyscraper slams up out of nowhere. Arthur stumbles back while it rips through the ground, shooting into the sky, going up stories and stories until the roof is level with most of the city.

"You complete the architecture before you enter the dream!" Arthur shouts, pissed off, even though he knows damn well no one can hear him. He picks himself up off the ground and brushes the dirt from his pants. He appreciates Ariadne's dedication and her inventiveness, but he's just not feeling up to dealing with those things bleeding into a lack of professionalism.

The change in landscape brings the projections pouring past, all of rush hour traffic heading towards the source of the disturbance. Arthur sighs but joins the crowd, knowing it will lead him to the others.

He should have been paying attention. He's very aware of that. But it's practice, not a job, and he has a lecture he can't wait to deliver. He turns the corner of the newly-minted skyscraper and gets a knife in his stomach.

Mal smiles.

It's a terrible smile, because it's so unfamiliar, a sneer to it that pulls at her face and makes her unrealness so fucking apparent. Arthur hits the ground with his knees and she follows him down, digging the knife in and rooting around like she's trying to make sure she gets all of his intestines, can't let anyone feel left out.

"Where's Arthur?" Eames voice as always carrying farther than the rest. He sounds annoyed, which Arthur really wouldn't blame him for, except that Arthur's choking up blood on the pavement and wondering exactly why Cobb's projection of Mal likes to fuck with him the most. (When he's feeling rational he determines that it's likely an issue of increased exposure. He's in Cobb's head the most, so he's the easiest target. Rationality doesn't make him any less bitter about it.)

Mal looks away from him, in the direction of Eames's voice, and that smile changes into something more predatory. She pulls the knife out so slowly Arthur can hear it almost as much as he can feel it. She tsks at him, shaking her head, and then stands. "It won't be too long, Arthur." She waves and walks away, her hips swinging, her glittering dress blinding in the sunlight.

'Too long' is debatable when you're bleeding to death and half your insides are on the outside. The projections walk over and around him like he doesn't exist, and if this were a job maybe he'd have enough of a push to crawl for help or warning. But crawling's just going to make it worse and he's not willing to do that just because Dom's projection of Mal is interested in playtime.

It's Eames who finds him. He pushes his way through the crowd, saying "There you are, Arthur," like Arthur's run off like a scolded child. Arthur coughs up blood and a "Fuck you."

Eames smiles uncomfortably and does him the kindness of a bullet between the eyes.

Arthur pulls the IV out, winds the cord up, and then stumbles to the bathroom.

His hands are trembling as he splashes water on his face. He can feel the ache building behind his eyes and he knows he's going to be out of commission all day.

He's just finished packing up his briefcase and pulling on his jacket when the rest of the team start to come to. He waits until Cobb blinks rapidly, pushing himself up to look Arthur in the eye.

"Handle it," Arthur tells him coldly- _firmly_ \- and walks out.

By the time he gets to the hotel, the headache's in full bloom. His skin tingles, and his pulse throbs across his skull. The sunlit lobby with the elevator chimes and the chorus of chatting tourists makes his eyes water. He manages to maintain composure through the elevator ride and even through the god damn keycard not catching twice.

He kicks his shoes off, throws his jacket and pants across the desk chair, tosses the shirt to the corner where he keeps the clothes that need laundering, and drops face down onto the feathersoft bed. It takes him a little while to get the covers over him but he lays in the dark and focuses on breathing.

He manages to sleep at some point, because he wakes up to a familiar voice saying, "Honestly, breaking into a hotel room is ridiculously easy these days."

Arthur has a gun under his pillow and he has no problem aiming it at his overconfident intruder.

"Oh, don't shoot." Eames's tone of voice conveys his eye roll perfectly. "I've brought coffee- caffeine's good for headaches- and dinner."

Arthur reluctantly lowers the gun. "Why are you here, Mr. Eames?"

"Why, Arthur." Eames sits down on the edge of the bed. "You wound me. Do I really need a reason?"

He holds out the paper coffee cup and Arthur takes it. And then he holds out two pills. Arthur eyes them.

"You didn't take anything, did you?" Eames pushes his hand right into Arthur's personal space, forcing him to take the pills from Eames's open palm.

"Are you here to coddle me?" Arthur makes out the aspirin brand imprinted on the pills before he dry swallows them.

"I'm here to find out why Cobb's subconscious decided to mutilate you." Eames smiles beatifically.

Arthur takes a tentative sip of the coffee and it's just sweet enough. "Decide is the wrong word."

Eames raises an eyebrow and pushes himself off the bed. "Mutilate isn't."

The headache is beginning to recede so when Eames reaches for the light Arthur waves for him to turn it on. "It's gotten worse," Arthur says, blinking and trying not to wince.

"And you were always her favorite," Eames mutters. He heads back to the door, grabs the bag sitting on the table near it. He brings it back, setting it on the bed by Arthur's thigh. "I brought biscuits. The bakery in the lobby isn't half bad."

"You brought cookies?" Arthur sets the coffee down and rummages through the bag. He's starving and even though his stomach still feels like hell, he's pretty sure he can manage a cookie if he can handle the coffee.

"Figured you deserved it. Not beating Cobb senseless while he slept and all." Eames tugs at the corner of the bag. "There's an oatmeal one in there. Hand it over."

Arthur thinks about it for half a second but takes the chocolate chip at the top and hands the whole bag over. "I don't think I'm going to eat two dozen cookies by myself."

Eames pulls out one of the oatmeal. "I couldn't decide what you'd like."

"You wanted cookies for breakfast," Arthur corrects.

"Well, really, there's enough for that, now isn't there." Eames drops the bag on the nightstand. "How often are you letting her carve out your insides?"

"The carving's new. Mostly it was shotguns." The chocolate chips are still warm and Arthur has to lick melted chocolate off his bottom lip. He leans over to look at the clock. "They bake cookies at nine at night?"

"I can be very persuasive when I choose to be." Eames taps his chin. "You missed a bit."

Arthur wipes the chocolate from his chin.

"Tell me this," Eames rubs his face and sighs, "Is it something I should be worried about?"

Arthur folds his legs up so he can sit a little straighter. There's a sharp flash of pain along the ridge of his brow but it doesn't linger. He sighs, pressing his thumb hard at the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure," he admits.

Arthur startles when he feels Eames's hands on his face. "Still not better then?" Eames asks, even though the answer's obvious. He's leaning forward, hands on either side of Arthur's face, his thumbs sweeping along Arthur's brow line.

"Yeah, well," Arthur says, but he doesn't push Eames off him like he should.

Eames slides his thumbs down, making slow circles against Arthur's temples and down along his cheekbones. "I remember that time in Fiji, you got pinned under that wall."

Arthur really hates remembering that. "I don't let Dom handle the explosives anymore."

Eames chuckles, close enough that Arthur can feel the warmth of his breath. "He does get a bit jumpy." His fingers spread out into Arthur's hair, short nails skimming the skin of underneath. "You spent almost two days in bed. I get phantom pains sometimes, you know. Like bruises that aren't there. But you definitely take it harder than most."

Arthur bristles, he can't help it, sits up straighter, but he doesn't pull away. "I can handle it just fine, Mr. Eames."

Eames makes a noise, a huff of air, and slides his fingers further into Arthur's hair, massaging his scalp. His thumbs skim the shells of Arthur's ears. "I didn't say you couldn't."

Arthur opens his eyes, can't remember closing them actually. He asks flatly, "What are you saying?"

Eames quirks his mouth to the left, not quite a smile. "I'm trying - and apparently failing- to point out that you could let me help. I'm not planning on coddling you, Arthur, but..." Eames shifts even closer, right into Arthur's personal space. His fingers skate down along Arthur's neck, pressing hard against the knots.

Arthur doesn't say anything.

Eames does smile then and he pulls his hands away. "Your neck's a mess. Lie down and let me help, yeah?"

Arthur eyes him consideringly. "I don't really trust you when you're pleasant."

Eames laughs. "I wasn't aware you trusted anyone. Lie. Down. Arthur." He pushes at the center of Arthur's chest. Arthur can still taste chocolate at the corner of his mouth and his head is aching, but pleasantly this time, like his legs do after a long run.

Arthur gives, just a little. He slides down the bed and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the down pillow.

The bed dips with Eames's weight. He swings his legs over so he's bracketing Arthur and Arthur feels ... not vulnerable exactly but definitely not comfortable. Eames presses fists along Arthur's spine, pushing the muscles up and down slowly, easing out the tension. "One of these days, you really need to research relaxation. I hear it's good for you."

His knuckles slide down Arthur's back to press deep into the base of his spine. And even though Eames is technically far too close to being inappropriate, his hands are firm and no-nonsense, and it's possibly the least flirtatious thing Arthur can remember Eames doing.

Eames is clearly not a professional at this. He has a hard time keeping up a rhythm and his fingers go clumsy at the jut of Arthur's shoulder blades. But his hands have the strength for it, and he's meticulous, tracing out every knot and going over it again and again until it gives way. It hurts like hell in some places but it feels good for all that.

And then Eames shuffles forward until he digs his fingers into the base of Arthur's neck.

Arthur's ashamed to admit that he groans pretty loudly. "It's like your neck's keeping your head on through sheer force of will," Eames whispers, breath ghosting across the nape of Arthur's neck, making the skin prickle.

"Well, someone has to keep their head on straight," Arthur mumbles into the pillow.

Eames chuckles. "Damn right," he agrees, and his thumbs draw hard lines on the cords of Arthur's neck, pushing until the muscle slowly soften under the assault.

Arthur sighs quietly.

Eames cards his fingers through Arthur's hair. Arthur can feel it sticking up, probably still thick with this morning's gel.

"I'm trying to think of something to say that won't get me thrown off the bed." Eames scratches the skin of Arthur's neck. "It's not going well."

Arthur turns his head. It's a slow process, the muscles not terribly interested in obeying. "Showing restraint?" Arthur's says when he gets his mouth free from the pillow. "I didn't know you had it in you."

Eames shifts, pulling his leg over Arthur so he can lie down on the bed next to him. "Doesn't happen often, I admit. But I am willing to put in a little extra effort for you, I'll have you know."

"Careful, Mr. Eames," Arthur smiles softly. "I might start thinking you like me."

"Well." Eames taps a finger against his own mouth. "I'll probably never like you as much as Cobb's mind does, but I suspect I could be persuaded to a modicum of fondness."

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

Eames smiles and it reaches his eyes. "Well, you do have your charms, Arthur. Slight though they may be."

"You're not entirely intolerable," Arthur responds in kind.

"I might swoon," Eames warns.

Arthur shifts onto his side, pushing his head onto Eames's pillow. "I know," he says.

He almost asks for permission, the quietness of the moment makes him think he should, but his body is moving ahead of him and when he kisses Eames he's almost surprised.

Eames curls a hand behind Arthur's neck, pulling him closer, and doesn't seem surprised at all.


End file.
